


James Blunt is a Fucking Joke

by Hotel_Denouement



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, Hot Grifs, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotel_Denouement/pseuds/Hotel_Denouement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dexter Grif, Simmons finds, is....handsome, if that's even the word for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	James Blunt is a Fucking Joke

**Author's Note:**

> i made a tumblr post a few days ago about a headcanon i have that the grifs are all absurdly attractive and i was finally inspired to write it lmao

They’re two months into basic training and about six days into officially calling themselves friends when Simmons finally sees Grif out of armor. They live in separate barracks and neither of them makes much of an effort to hang out with the other outside of breakfast, lunch, dinner, or past 2030 (Grif would much rather be sleeping if he’s not eating, since those are apparently his two favorite activities and by then Simmons is about sick of the motherfucker) so seeing each other in casual gear simply hadn’t happened yet. It happens in the washroom of Simmons’s barracks, where Simmons is trying to hide from a nearby female soldier the fact that his mother had put his name on all of his clothes as he separates his laundry, when the laundry door opens and someone backs into the room, dragging a heavy bag evidently full of two months and six days worth of unwashed clothes. The strained grunts of effort are more than familiar by this point.

“Grif?” Simmons says to the unfamiliar figure and is greeted by an equally startled, “Simmons?”

Dexter Grif, Simmons finds, is…handsome, if that’s even the word for it. He’s fat and brown-skinned with a shock of inky black hair growing back unevenly from the mandatory buzz cut and the dark shadow of a few days’ stubble even though dudes are _supposed_ to shave every morning. He’s got weird, intricate-looking tattoos on both of his shoulders, probably tribal or some shit, and Simmons can see a hairy stomach bulging out between the hem of his black undershirt and army fatigues. He’s worked up a sweat from dragging his laundry all the way from his own barracks, apparently unable to find a free washing machine there, and the nostrils of his wide nose are flared and his thick black eyebrows are drawn together as he looks at Simmons with surprise. It’s a bizarrely intense expression and almost unpleasantly attractive, which is alarming because overall the fat grumpy-looking fuck that Grif has turned out to be isn’t the type of person Simmons is into, and he doesn’t really understand why Grif seems good-looking to him, but the girl soldier he was trying to keep from seeing his labeled underwear is also looking at Grif with an expression of perplexion and attraction, so it’s not just him.

Simmons realizes he’s been staring for a good ten seconds and that Grif is starting to get kind of annoyed, so the first thing he manages to blurt out is, “Whoa, you’re a big fat fuck.” _Nailed it._

“Yeah, and you’re a pasty fucking nerd. Mind your own business before I give you a wedgie and steal your lunch money.”

 It’s probably for the best, then, that he still doesn’t see Grif out of his armor all that often following the first time. He sees him in casual dress two, maybe three more times throughout training, even hangs out with him for a couple of hours when they’re both out of uniform, and to be honest he’d rather not do that again if he can help it, because exposure to out-of-uniform Grif doesn’t really make his appearance less jarring. If anything, the longer Grif is out of armor, the harder it is not to stare at him. At one point Simmons _almost_ Googled “how to tell if your best friend is an incubus” but decided he’d rather not know. Vampires turn into bats, and Grif is a fucking whiny pissbaby about bats anyway.

It’s harder to avoid, though, when they’re both stationed at Blood Gulch Outpost 1-B and share a lot space. On the bright side, Simmons still knows he’s not the only one disturbed by Grif’s inexplicable good looks, and the fact that fucking _Sarge_ is affected too is hilarious.

“I don’t like it when Grif doesn’t wear his armor,” he grumbles to Sarge in the kitchen at some point in the first month of their assignment when Grif shuffles in groggily and heads straight for the fridge, freshly awakened and not yet suited up and all rumpled and gross and still weirdly fucking attractive. “Have you seen him without armor on, Sarge? Look.”

Sarge looks, and his epithet still rings true with Simmons to this day: “Sweet Greta Garbo, he’s beautiful!” Across the kitchen he barks, “Grif! Get out of here and go suit up! Nobody here wants to see you like that! You might as well be bare-ass naked, you inconsiderate piece of crap!”

“What the fuck, _fine_ ,” Grif scowls, slamming the refrigerator door and stalking out of sight. Simmons heaves a sigh of relief and looks at Sarge, who clutches his rifle close to his chest while making weird, unhappy noises.

“I’ll have to violently purge this from my memory, Simmons,” Sarge says gravely, “if I want to keep frothing with hatred at the sight of Grif _and_ get into Heaven.”

It’s not so weird, though, that Grif’s sister is just as attractive as Grif, and at least _that_ doesn’t make Simmons feel all uncomfortable and self-conscious. He only sees her out of armor once, on the computer screen in the caves (which was awesome because she was totally naked and doing the splits and Simmons swears at one point he could see straight up to her birth canal, no really!), but Simmons knows that Tucker got to see her like that up close and personal at least once. He’d shared that information in great detail, which frankly Simmons could have lived without, but that talk had left Simmons with yet another confirmation:

The Grif siblings are straight-up _freaky_ hot. It’s not just Simmons and it’s not just Sarge.

Tucker discovered this, Simmons is told, with his fingers sunk deep inside Sister and his mouth on her neck and her hand palming at his cock through his fatigues and _Jesus Christ, Tucker, I don’t need a fucking play-by-play!_

She straddled him quickly, letting Tucker’s fingers slip out of her and she positioned herself over the tent in his pants, grinding, her pussy leaving damp marks on the crotch of his fatigues. Her skin was hot to the touch and Tucker relished the way her flesh gave softly when he grabbed her ass, his hips rocking up to meet her. He grinned at the way she moaned and then slid her hand around the back of his neck, fingernails digging in slightly.

“So we gonna do this or what?” she said impatiently, breathlessly.

“Yeah, you got a condom?” Tucker said, recalling her comment about scratching. He desperately wanted to go down her, bury his nose in her thick pubes and lap greedily at her wetness, but hell no. He’d had one lonely condom left in his bedside drawer a couple of months ago, probably long expired anyway, but Caboose had found it and blown it up like a fucking balloon.

“In my wallet,” Sister said, dismounting and rolling onto her back. She hooked her hands behind her knees and lifted them so they met her shoulders, putting on a show for Tucker. “Suit up and fuck me.”

“God damn, yeah!” This was the best day of his fucking life. He tripped over his own pants, he had yanked them down so fast on his journey across the room to find her wallet. It was an ugly thing with sunflowers printed all over it, but when Tucker opened it, he noticed a picture inside before he noticed the shiny condom wrapper. It was a picture of Sister on a sunny beach in a mismatched bikini (what is she, colorblind?), grinning wide and happy with her arms flung around some fat dude who was, somehow, in a not-gay way, just as hot as her. No way that was—

“Is this your brother?” he asked incredulously, boner momentarily forgotten, turning to show Sister the picture. She was watching him with half-lidded eyes and rubbing lazy circles on her clit. Her fingers stopped and she smiled brightly when she looked at the photo.

“Yeah, that’s me and Grif!”

“Whoa,” Tucker said, feeling mildly uncomfortable with the thick, warm heat pulsing from his dick in response to Grif’s image, not unlike the feeling the sight of Sister with her legs parted eagerly for him incited. “He’s—”

“A fat piece of shit? Yeah,” Sister said fondly.

“No, I mean—well, yeah,” Tucker conceded, “I mean y’all are both really—” he paused, then settled lamely on, “nice-looking. It’s weird.”

Sister blinked at him slowly, then settled back against the pillows of Tucker’s bed with a grin, sliding two fingers into herself with a pleasurable hum.

“Ooooh, do you want to invite him in here?” she suggested knowingly, even though she didn’t _actually_ know because fuck no Tucker didn’t want to invite _Grif_ in here!

“Um, no, I don’t want to invite your fucking _brother_ in here for a threesome,” Tucker said, disturbed, but his cock still throbbed at the idea. That was so creepy.

“Then get the condom and get over here and fuck me already.” And when she put it like that, well, it wasn’t hard to get back to business. And Tucker definitely wasn’t going to argue with her method of Sister putting the condom between her lips and slowly, languidly sliding her mouth all the way down his—

Simmons leaves the room then. He’s heard enough.

That’s what inspires him to do a quick internet search for Grif and Sister’s mother. He’s been meaning to look her up ever since Sister said that their mom was a fat bearded lady in the circus because one, holy shit, that is hilarious and Simmons can’t wait to give Grif shit for it, and two, _how the fuck does a fat bearded woman give birth to two super hot assholes?_

In the end, he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. He finds her, all right—Mahina Grif, celebrated circus performer, and the numerous articles written about her are almost as surprising as Simmons’s reaction to the first picture of her. Mahina Grif, all 600 pounds of her (and 100 of them have to be the coarse black beard on her face), is absolutely, undeniably beautiful. As a performer, she’s dressed to impress in all of her photos—long, flowing, gauzy gowns, some glittering with sequins and jewels and others adorned with a variety of tropical flowers. Beneath her makeup—impressive designs of eyeshadow and black eyeliner highlighting an intense and intelligent gaze of emerald green, eyelashes of a queen, and purple lipstick that says she could murder a man and he would happily let her—Simmons can see Dexter and Kaikaina Grif, soft and broad and round and unbelievably, unexplainably beautiful. He can even see the basis Grif’s cheek line on Mahina’s face, although her cheek line has been styled into fascinating, twisting shapes like cresting waves or the edges of a flame. Her beard is long and woven with ribbons and dotted with colorful flowers, and Simmons just doesn’t _understand_ how a fucking fat bearded circus lady is exactly what hundreds of articles speculate her to be: “Hawaii’s Most Famous Circus Attraction: Fat Bearded Lady…And Most Beautiful Woman Alive?!”

Across all the rocks in space that Earth has colonized in the past centuries, society still insists that everything about the Grifs is not attractive—fat, hairy, not white—but here they fucking are, all three of them so good-looking it’s a task to avert one’s eyes. It’s fucking weird and it’s fucking _bullshit._

“What the hell, did you Google my _mom?_ ” Simmons whips around at the sound of Grif’s voice, and of course, of fucking course he’s out of armor, the sight of him punching Simmons right in the face.

“What the fuck, Grif?” Simmons can’t help but sound accusing, and let’s be honest, he kind of is. He jabs a finger at the picture on the computer. “What the fuck.”

Grif storms over and slams a hand down on the keyboard, shutting the thing off. He’s pissed. “Shut up! You don’t see me creeping on the internet for your deserting ginger piece of shit dad—”

“You’re all super fucking hot!” Simmons rages. “You, your sister, your fucking fat bearded mom! _What the fuck?_ ”

Grif stares at him, green eyes wide and piercing, and Simmons can feel his face flushing like it always does when he’s face with an unmasked Grif.

“It’s _creepy_ ,” Simmons says weakly. He’s thankful when Grif looks away, lips pursed.

“Keep it in your pants, Simmons,” he grumps at last. “And _don’t_ look for porn of my mom!”

But Simmons does. He totally does.


End file.
